“So you’re going to marry Rudy because you want to have a baby?”
“Also, you know, I love him.” It came out sounding like an afterthought.
McKay was looking at her suspiciously. “You do?”
“Of course I do. I’ve been with him for years. What did you think?”
“I don’t know, I thought you were in it for the sex.”
“Girls don’t do things just for sex,” Pru said. “It’s not that hard for us to get. Come on, honey. I gotta get this show on the road. I’m thirty-six. Oh, cut it out, you knew that.”
They didn’t speak, drinking their beers. In the heat of the day, it didn’t take long to feel a little drunk. Then McKay loudly smacked his lips and said, “I hate to admit it, but I always thought Rudy was hot. I was kind of pissed that he went for you, not me.”
Pru pressed the cold bottle to her face, pleased. Rudy was hot, with intelligent, green eyes and black, curly hair. And until she’d gotten to him, he hadn’t known it. He’d dressed in sloppy oversized clothes, with big plastic, geeky-on-purpose glasses. She made him buy some nice new clothes that fit, and more flattering glasses. She took him to her own hairdresser, Samuel, to have his hair cut. And she’d persuaded him to work his shtick a little bit less when out in public. He still embarrassed her sometimes, but the way he took her suggestions, his desire to please her, touched her deeply. She’d thought it a stroke of genius on her part: Rather than fight over the obvious desirable guys, she’d made one for herself.
“I did some good work on that boy,” she said. “You wouldn’t know him as the same person from two years ago. He’s like my Eliza Doolittle.”
“More like your Frankenstein,” McKay replied. “So, when is this whole wedding thing happening?”
“Soon, I think. There was a kind of we-need-to-talk-tonight e-mail from him this morning.”
“What kind of we-need-to-talk?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, just that. Just, we need to talk tonight.”
“That could be anything, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Like anything.”
She’d been so happy to see that e-mail. She wasn’t used to feeling out of touch with Rudy. Quite the opposite. She was usually besieged with e-mails and phone calls from Rudy, even when he was just a mile away, at his office downtown. The most she’d been able to get out of him all week was that he’d met Ken Burns in a session on documentary film programming, and that his dry cleaning needed to be picked up.
While McKay went to the men’s room, she ordered another round. It was almost too bad she had to leave soon to meet Rudy. She and McKay were so comfortable together they could sit and watch grass grow. In fact, the summer after college, when McKay’s roommate seemed to have unlimited access to dime bags, they probably had watched grass grow. God, she hadn’t gotten high in ages. She didn’t know anyone who smoked pot anymore. She hadn’t particularly enjoyed the smell, the dirty bong, or how it made her feel—thirsty and, later, paranoid—but she liked its calming effect. And how, when stoned, you were semi-quarantined with those who got you that way.
“Hey, Rudy’ll age well, too, don’t you think?” she said, when McKay returned from the bathroom.
McKay rolled his eyes. “If you don’t kill him first.”
“You’re just jealous. Always the bridesmaid . . .”
McKay snorted. “Baby, I can get married whenever I want. I can get married before you.”
Pru smiled. McKay with his back up was preferable to McKay pining for his dog. In fact, there wasn’t anything much more entertaining than McKay with his back up.
“Oh yeah?” she said. “Prove it.”
“Fine,” he said. “I will.” He plucked his cell phone out of the breast pocket of his jacket and dialed his home number. He put it on speaker, so Pru could hear.
“Hey,” said Bill’s voice, after a few rings.
“Hey, it’s me. You want to get married?”
There was a pause. Then Bill said, “Troy? I told you never to call me here.”
“Ha-ha,” said McKay. “Pru’s here, by the way.”
“Hi, Pru,” said Bill, laughing. “Sure, let’s get married. Why not?”
“But we won’t have Dolly, to be our ring-bearer,” McKay said. “I was going to tie a little silk pillow on to her back.”
Bill ignored this. “Why don’t you stop on your way home and get some souvlaki?” he said. “If you’re not too drunk, of course.”
“I know what will cheer you up,” Pru said, as they emerged from the dark bar into sunlight, blinking like night ferrets. “Let’s go to the shelter and look at some doggies. I mean, I know no dog could ever replace the Dolly Lama. But maybe it’s okay just to look.”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right to me, not yet.”
“It’s not like you’re going to have another one right away. I mean, look how long it took you two to choose paint for your bathroom.” Pru had threatened to kill herself if they asked her to look at those paint chips—“Butterfrost” or “Sandy Toes”—one more time.
“Hmm,” he said. She could see he was warming to the idea. “Well, maybe. I keep hearing about these rescued greyhounds. I always liked the idea of that, you know, giving an old race dog a good retirement home.” They were standing at the steps in front of Pru’s building. “Listen,” McKay said, surprisingly serious. “If you marry Rudy, you’re going to have to live with him. And his cat. Didn’t you say he had a cat?”
Trust McKay to remember that Rudy had a cat. She’d totally forgotten. She’d met the cat only once, the one time she’d agreed to sleep over at Rudy’s apartment. The instant she opened her eyes in the morning she became depressed, seeing the grim, oatmeal-colored Berber carpeting, a harsh ray of sun
